The Tragic Tale Of Butters Stotch
by Completely Original Pen Name
Summary: There's only so much someone can take before they snap. Rated M, full warning inside.


((A/N: Proceed with caution. Trigger warnings for blood, death, basically everything. This fic is a dark one.))

He sat in the back of class, pencil gripped tightly in his hand as if he were ready to stab someone. His sleeves were long and thick, rolled down to cover up scars and bruises. Eyes that were once shining and full of innocence were now dark and empty, emphasized by heavy bags underneath. Sleep was hard to come by for him. The thoughts kept him up all night. The horrible thoughts, the ones that told him to kill. They told him to stab, maim, and torture, and then all his problems would disappear. They weren't picky about who his victim would be either. They showed him images of his dad, lifeless on the floor with his head split open. They showed his grandmother falling down the flight of stairs leading to his basement, thuds and cracks coming from her body as she fell to her doom. They showed Eric Cartman on the floor of his own bedroom, face bruised and stomach ripped open, guts and blood spilling out as his mother questioned wether her precious poopsie-kins was playing nice with his friend. They showed nearly everyone he knew at one point or another, dead and bloodied. Even the people he liked. Stan, Kenny, even Bradley from that damned camp.

The thoughts alone were bad enough. What made him go over the edge was that he liked them. It reminded him of when he was younger, and he'd happily watch cartoons with his parents in the next room over. Before the thoughts came. Before he considered killing everyone he knew, and then ending his own life. Back then, he was so carefree, so happy, despite his father's wrath, constantly hanging over him like a dark cloud. Being on his best behavior at all times helped, but he knew that if his dad was mad, he'd find something to ground his son for. He never saw anything wrong with this. Other kids his age got grounded a lot, so of course he would receive the same punishment every once in a while as well.

He missed elementary school. He missed being naive to the point of stupidity, being convinced that everyone was his friend and that the world was a beautiful place. He missed being able to release his anger with a simple game of make-believe, a tinfoil hat, and a cape. He still kept the stupid costume. It had stopped fitting him long ago, but seeing it in his closet was one of the few things keeping him from truly living out his homicidal fantasies. Seeing it hanging in his closet gave him tiny doses of nostalgia-filled happiness. It was always just enough to get him through the day. He never told a soul this, and nobody in all of South Park knew about the costume hanging up in his closet.

Because all good things must come to an end, his father came across the costume during one of his anger-fueled rampages. He stormed into his son's room, face red, veins popping from his forehead, screaming about what a mess it was, when in all reality, there was only a few articles of clothing and a stray pencil on the floor.

He watched in horror as his father knocked everything off every shelf, some of it shattering. He squeezed his eyes shut as his father threw open his closet door, and then grabbed hangers and shoes and abandoned toys, throwing them to the floor while screaming at him. His father found the old costume, and held it up.

"What's this?" His father demanded. "What the FUCK is this?"

"I-it's just somethin' from when I was a kid sir," he responded, voice quiet and knuckles rubbing together.

"Why the FUCK do you still have this piece of shit?" His father demanded as he threw the precious tin foil helmet to the ground. He fought back tears as his father stomped it into an unrecognizable pile, then ripped the cape right in two.

"I-I'm sorry, sir," he kept whimpering as he watched his father's unforgivable act. His nails clawed at his arms, a habit he adopted during middle school. Small beads of red quickly began beading out. His father didn't notice.

"You better be sorry!" His father responded as he gave the pile a kick. "Clean this shit up, it's a pigsty!"

With that, his father stormed out of the room, proclaiming his exit with a loud slam of the door. He heard the click of the lock, giving him both relief and a new fear. He wouldn't be able to leave his room again for who-knows-how long. It could be minutes, hours, even days. He had been locked in his room countless times before, most of them ending when he had to go to school. There had been a few times when he had been locked in for over a week. His mother snuck him food once per day, but other than that, he was completely on his own.

Tears threatened to spill from his eyes as he began picking up the things from his shelf, and placing what was still intact back where it was before. For the broken stuff, he shoved it into a pile. He purposely left the mangled costume for last. He picked it up gingerly and carried it to his bed, and began shredding it into tiny pieces with his hands. At this, the tears fell from his eyes. Dark spots formed on the bedspread, and a pile of tin foil grew larger by the minute. When the costume was completely destroyed, he picked up as many pieces as he could and went to his window. Luckily, it always opened no matter what. This time was no exception. Icy cold air flew in, hitting him in his tear-moistened face. He paid no attention to it as he threw the ripped pieces of his costume out the window. They fluttered away gracefully, and he stood there watching until they were out of his sight. He had to make several trips to get all the pieces, and he watched each batch float away. He wondered if someone would find them floating around. Maybe some dumbass would think aliens were invading, he thought bitterly as the last few pieces left his sight. A sense of finality washed over him, like it was the end.

Maybe it was.

Finding the gun was unexpected. It laid there in the snow, glistening in the morning sunlight. He looked around like a squirrel making sure nobody was after its nuts before snatching it up and shoving it into his backpack. He stashed it between his chemistry textbook and the back of his backpack before resuming his walk to school.

The whole day, he couldn't get the gun in his backpack out of his mind. He was convinced that everyone knew, and that he'd get called down to the principal's office, and get expelled, then get the worst grounding of his life. He kept his head low as he walked down the halls as he usually did, blond hair hanging in his face, blocking him out from everyone else. His peers' between-class chit-chat was muffled, as if he was in a different world. He dug his nails into his palms and gritted his teeth as he went into the bathroom. It was only occupied by Clyde Donavan and Craig Tucker, and they (or at least Clyde) seemed to absorbed into their stupid conversation to notice the new arrival.

He slipped into one of the stalls and quietly closed the door, locking it. He stood there, heart beating and sweat forming on his forehead, waiting for the two occupants to leave. They did, their conversation not ceasing for even a second. As soon as he was sure they were gone, he opened the flap of his backpack. The weapon was still there, clear as day. He pulled it out gingerly, as if a mere touch might set it off. He ran his hand along the length of the cylinder, and then brought the tip to his eye to get a better look. He opened his mouth slightly, lowering the weapon so the tip was resting on his lower lip. He fingered the trigger lightly and squeezed his eyes shut.

The bell rang, and Butters immediately pulled the weapon away from his face. He stashed it back in his backpack and threw open the door. There was only one class left for the day. No need for him to be such an inconvenience to his classmates...

He entered the classroom, thankful to see that he had beaten the teacher. He went to his seat in the back, between Tweek Tweak and Kenny McCormick. Kenny raised his hand in a small wave towards him as he sat down, but he didn't return the greeting, pretending to be getting something out of his backpack. Kenny was one of the only people in town who successfully managed to be nice to everyone, despite the constant ridicule him and his family received for being poor, or drunks, or whatever else. It used to be one of the parts of his life that made him happy, that made him think that maybe things could get better. But not that day.

He was careful not to let a single glance of the gun be seen as he pulled a pencil and a sheet of notebook paper out of the bag. He closed his backpack and sat up just as the teacher entered the classroom, pile of papers in hand.

He looked around the room, quickly studying each of his classmates. He knew all of them from kindergarten, because nobody ever moved to the stupid town for too long, and the only way anybody could get out was jail or death. Eric Cartman, the bane of his existence, sat a few rows up, between Wendy Testaburger and Kyle Broflovski. Kyle sat next to Stan Marsh, as he did in nearly every class the two shared. They were already passing notes back and forth, and holding back laughter at whatever the hell they had written. It filled him with rage, and his thoughts went to the gun in his backpack. Despite not knowing if it was loaded or not, he wanted to pull it out. He'd shoot Eric first, before anyone realized what he was doing. Then they'd notice, and all gasp in surprise. Stan and Kyle would probably migrate towards each other immediately. Butters would shoot them both as well. Wendy would be next on his list, then the teacher, then Tweek. Kenny would be next, then he would go lock the door before ending his own pathetic life.

He gripped his pencil tightly in his hand, as if he were ready to stab someone. The fantasy ran through his head. He could do it, he could do it so easily. Even if someone stopped him before the whole scenario was carried out, he could still at least get Eric, then maybe Stan or Kyle. It would be well worth any sort of punishment. Besides, he could easily carry out the last part of his plan in jail...

He took a deep breath, and set the pencil down. It was now or never... He reached towards his backpack and opened it slowly. His heart felt like it was about to explode as his hand touched the cool metal of the gun. He slowly pulled it out of the backpack, and lifted it up. His hands were shaking and his knees felt weak as he stood up. He pointed the tip of the weapon at his target, and his finger found the trigger. Seconds stretched into hours as he pulled down, and the bullet flew through the air. It entered the back of his target's head, and blood spurted out as the target fell to the floor. Time began slowly speeding up as heads turned to see what had happened, their mouths quickly forming gasps. Hands still shaking, he dropped the gun on the floor, and it landed with a clatter. He ran out of the classroom, nausea and shakiness running through him. As he pushed open the back door to the school, the lockdown alarm began blaring through the hallway.

He ran and ran as fast as he could go. His lungs burned and tears stung his eyes. He had killed someone. He had taken a life, right in front of a room of witnesses. He ran towards the woods. It seemed to be the only place to go. Distantly, he could hear police sirens.

He kept his speed as he entered the wooded area, and only stopped when his legs and lungs could no longer carry him. He collapsed, panting, onto the forest floor. There he laid for hours, sobbing and burning all over. He wished he had matches. He felt he deserved to be burned to death.

The sky had turned dark before he heard footsteps. He made no effort to move. Maybe it was a cop. Maybe it was a homeless person. Who the hell knows, who the hell cares. The footsteps were accompanied by murmuring. He could hear several voices. He didn't bother silencing his sobs. He wanted to get caught, to get punished for his crime. Maybe he'd get the death sentence.

He heard his name get called out. His father was there. Great, just fucking great, he thought to himself. The footsteps sped up as the murmuring grew louder. Soon, he was surrounded by people. His mom, his dad, and several police officers were there. An officer began speaking to him, but it seemed muffled. He made no effort to listen, and nobody seemed to notice. He felt a pair of familiar, warm arms pull him up. His mother began scolding him, but was interrupted by a cop. He could vaguely hear the cop saying something about jail, no bond. Good, he thought. Cold metal shackles were locked around his wrists, and the small group made their way out of the forest. He could see the school in the distance as they exited the woods. Several police cars, an ambulance, and several civilian cars were parked outside, their owners off to the side conversing. The mother of the person he shot was still there, wrapped in a blanket and holding a foam cup. He wondered where the rest of his classmates were, or the teacher.

All conversation ceased when he was led closer, and they realized that he was there. The grieving mother let out a loud sob. "You killed him! You piece of shit!" She called out. A few of the other people began shouting things at him as well. He didn't try to make them out.

The officer leading him finally told the people to shut up. They did, except for the mother, who had burst into loud sobs. He noticed she was being restrained by a cop. He opened his mouth to tell the cop to let her go, to let him kill him if she so pleased, but no sounds could come out of his throat.

The officer led him to one of the cruisers, and shoved him unceremoniously into the back. He made no struggle against it.

He was driven to a brick building, and as he was led inside, several much older, much bigger men shouted at him. The officer commanded for them to stop, but they didn't. He was put into a cell by himself, and his handcuffs were taken off, and the cell door was immediately locked. He sat on the hard stone floor almost immediately, and stared blankly at the cold grey wall.

He stood up slowly after a few hours, and walked towards the wall. He eyed the same spot on it, the word "DIE" carved into it, just slightly above eye level. With the noble intention of taking the carving's advice, put one hand on either side of the word before banging his head into it as hard as he could. Pain shot through him and red clouded his vision, but it didn't stop him from repeating the action a second, then a third, then a fourth time. Blood stained the wall and dripped to the floor as he banged his head onto the wall, breaking the skin, then trying to give his skull the same treatment. The other inmates had noticed what was happening,

and they had started shouting, some cheering him on with words of encouragement, while others were calling for someone to come help. He hit his head against the wall five, six, seven more times, but still had no intentions of stopping. After the tenth, his vision went black, and he fell to the floor, forehead looking as if it was cracked open. The warden of the jail was just in time to see him collapse, blood staining the wall and then spreading to the floor. He laid there, barely breathing and blond hair matted in blood, his eyes wide open and practically bulging out of the sockets. The warden dialed an ambulance on a cellphone, but it was all in vain; he was already far too close to death to come back. The pain had completely ceased for him the moment he lost consciousness, but the blood still flowed from his head, even after his chest stopped moving. Along with his breathing stopping, the thoughts had finally stopped as well, just as he had wanted for years.

Although it didn't go exactly as he had imagined it, his plan had succeeded.


End file.
